The Wonder Years
by Canned Tins
Summary: Drake Mallard pays his childhood home a visit. Prompt requested by Domiinyq - "You can't save everyone."


4691 Stone Avenue was empty.

There were hardly any traces of the cars, decorated lawns and lights that used to populate the neighborhood as Drake once knew it. The houses were still there, but all the lights were gone, as if no-one lived there anymore. Untrue, a fair amount of people still lived in the neighborhood, but definitely not as many as he remembered.

He recognized the house he had come to visit. It was drab and frankly ugly, but he knew it was his home. The roof was still that dark brown, squared-off shape and the walls were white with plaster. Even the lawn was still there, although obviously un-mowed. He remembered how he'd invite his friend Elmo over, or when he'd have a little picnic with his parents on the front lawn, or even coming back from school and greeting the neighbor right next door.

None of that was here now, except for the house and lawn itself.

Drake knew he no longer had the keys to the house, and no-one had lived there for some time, so he assumed the door must be locked. He wasn't about to break into his old house, either. He thought about asking a neighboring resident for access, but wanted to remain unseen so he wouldn't gather suspicion. It was odd for him to feel paranoid about this, but somehow he just felt that way.

He took a look inside the windows-left uncurtained. Empty on the inside, the home looked even sadder as he peered in, no more traces of a living room, family life, a fireplace. Nothing indicating a warm familial household anymore. The only things left were crumbling walls and ceiling. Shocking that it hadn't been vandalized yet. Almost like the house had been waiting for him the entire time and accepted no intruders.

Drake moved behind the house to try and take a good look at the backyard, skillfully climbing over the wooden fence and into dead grass and soil. The trees were wilted too, only remnants of backyard activities remained, and to Drake, it was even more dreary than Morgana's own mansion.

He recognized the back door that the family used for access to the backyard, a door made of plexiglass, so that it was very difficult to break in. The glass had gotten grimy and dirty over the decades, but he could still get a better view of the living room and kitchen space. He remembered when he cut his knee when he fell at the doorstep of the backyard, and it left a scar that lasted until he was a teenager. He remembered the stairs that would lead to his room, nicely carpeted and when he was in the mood, he'd go upstairs on all fours for fun. And he thought about the times he would beg his mother for an extra cookie after dinner.

He thought more about his mother. The house held so many memories for Drake that it was difficult to just focus on one, but he remembered _this_ one as he looked out to the edge of the backyard, just inches from the fence he'd jumped over. As he walked over to that spot, where the grass parted just a little and there were still old dark stains on the otherwise light-brown wooden fence, he remembered.

Drake's father had died in a car accident when he was barely 16, this was only a few months before the prom.

He never knew his father very well as he was "too busy", but he still looked up to him. His father never meant harm and was always a loving parent, but he just wasn't _always there_ for Drake. He hadn't been there when Drake cut his knee or when he had his 13th birthday party, because he was out there, somewhere. Doing something. Drake and his mother at least knew it was nothing bad and that he never got into actual trouble, although he'd come home a little more scruffy and tired, and he'd tell Drake about the amazing adventure he'd had in Cuba, but no other details. He assumed his father was a secret agent or something, and that's why he'd always been busy.

When his father died, both he and his mother were distraught. To his mother, it was a freak accident, he'd turned the wrong way at the wrong place. To Drake, he wanted to think of it as something more adventurous, fitting the spy persona he'd invented for his father. And two months later was prom night, where Darkwing Duck was born. Either it was the death of his father that inspired him, or it was that...dream of a purple-caped superhero that had always stuck with him since it first happened. Actually, he still wasn't sure if it was a dream or if it was real. Like it was his future self or something that guided him to become Darkwing Duck.

But that's not what Drake remembered from this patch of grass.

He'd gone back and forth between his Drake and Darkwing Duck persona up to his college years, sort of riffing off Spider-Pig. His mother never knew about this, though. But Drake then wished she did, when he received a call during class that she'd been shot in the backyard while finishing the laundry.

He remembered dropping the professor's telephone and standing there in shock as his classmates wondered what was going on. The professor had him excused, declaring "extreme distress", police officers escorted him to his house where the scene had happened. His mother wasn't there anymore, already taken away by ambulance, but the marks of the crime scene were still present.

He was only 21 when it happened.

His mother was declared dead just hours after it all happened. Drake had no idea what to do or where to go from here anymore, he refused police help and did not even want to step foot into the house. He remembered being angry at the police for not doing anything earlier, at the doctors for being too late to save her, at the world for robbing both of his parents while he was still so young. It was such a cliche superhero backstory that he'd never thought would occur, until it did.

They never caught the shooter. But Drake wanted to know who it was. It was just after her death that he'd become inspired to go off the grid, to become no longer Drake Mallard, but Darkwing Duck. The fates had told him in the most brutal sense that he was destined to be a vigilante, and he was to follow through with it. He even scraped off his own fingerprints so no one could be able to identify him as Drake Mallard, declaring him a missing person just like Elmo Sputterspark.

Going back into the present, Drake found himself with a single tear forming in his eye, quickly wiping it off. Even alone, he didn't want to be seen as vulnerable. After taking some time off from taking a breather, he walked back out into the street. Drake looked up at the flickering lamp post, flickering between yellow and black, yellow and black.

He remembered something else.

It had only been a month since the crime. Darkwing Duck roamed the streets as a vigilante, not yet with his future gadgets but armed with fists and determination. He worked for small amounts of money, he worked for praise, and he wanted to be seen as something special. He could feel his self-worth blossoming ever since he changed, eventually leaving behind Drake Mallard. Poor, puny, timid Drake Mallard. He no longer wanted to be _that_.

During the day, St. Canard _could_ get dangerous, but at night, it was even more so. But Darkwing was not swayed by this. _Let's get dangerous, then_, he thought to himself. There was no obvious sign of crime yet, Darkwing looked bored as he stared up at a lamp post, flickering rapidly at him, which left him deciding whether it was actually morse-code or not.

"Drakey?"

Darkwing started, he hadn't heard that old moniker in over a month, he'd _left behind_ his old self, who was calling to him now?

"Elmo?"

A chuckle from the alleys.

"No, Drakey. You don't know me, but I know you."

Darkwing realized he must have been dreaming again, pinching himself which only elicited genuine pain in the process. He demanded to know who the mysterious speaker was, holding out his fists boldly.

Out stepped a figure in a black coat. It was a duck that looked familiar, and yet a complete stranger at the same time.

"Who are you?"

"Are you deaf? I said I'm someone you don't know, but _I_ know you! Drake Mallard!"

The other duck sounded angry, with a rather venomous tone as he spoke, no intent of being polite, "I won't tell you who I am, that'd ruin the surprise!"

Darkwing still had his fists held out, this time really wishing he had a knife or something in hand. He tried his best not to look weak in front of the stranger.

"I'm just here to teach you a life lesson. Maybe a death lesson! Whichever sounds more fun to you. Pick your poison."

Darkwing thought about this for a second, was this some prankster? Some greaser type a decade too late to the party trying to stir up things? He looked too familiar _and _he knew about Drake Mallard. He could attempt to fight him and die, or he could get answers from the stranger.

He chose the latter.

"Smart pick! I was hoping you'd be as much of a genius as I am," the stranger sneered, "I know about your mom, too. It happened to me, too. Except..._I_ was the one who did it."

The stranger broke into laughter as Darkwing looked on, perplexed. Did he just confess to killing his own mother? What was going on?

"Anyway. I was here to teach you a lesson, _Darkwing_," he spat out the name in a condescending tone, "No matter how good of a superhero you'll become, or whatever. You can't save everyone. You couldn't save your mama. That's life, Drakey."

"What?!" Darkwing snapped.

He made a move for the stranger, but was met with concrete as the other dodged out of the way, and Darkwing looked up from the ground to see the stranger pointing a gun directly at his face.

"Who...are you?!" Darkwing hissed, staring into the stranger's eyes.

"You'll find out soon enough."

The stranger withdrew his gun and disappeared in a flash of smoke, leaving the bewildered Darkwing in the dust. He did not get up from the ground for a good few minutes, too shaken to think of anything else.

The lamp post continued to flicker.

"_You can't save everyone."_

In the present, the words continued to ring in Drake's ears as he stood in the empty neighborhood. The stranger was right, as much as he hated to admit it.

Maybe, Drake thought, maybe that was the point. Not even the best superhero can save every single soul.

And sometimes, it seemed like...sometimes he wasn't _supposed_ to.

Drake sighed, returning to his car for a drive home-that is, his current home, not the one he left behind so long ago.

Negaduck spied from one of the neighboring houses, having watched every movement Drake made. And he smiled.


End file.
